


Crescendo

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Drama, F/M, Little bit of blood, Sex, Smut, Spoilers for Season 3, Violence, coarse language, little bit of gore, mentions of death and bullets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s fitting, that Sherlock Holmes would follow her, even in death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adi_mou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adi_mou/gifts), [Flavialikestodraw](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Flavialikestodraw).



She’s always heard that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Your accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, are all supposed to flash rapidly, as you descend into the dark oblivion.

 

She was always comforted by it. When her mother died, she held on to the hope that her mother’s life, her accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, eased her fear of dying when the other car spun out of control and slammed into hers, driving her into a brick wall. (She hopes the brief images of her and her father were able to comfort her.)

 

Likewise, when her father died. He suffered enough in his life that she thinks death may have been the greatest mercy life could have bestowed upon him. So, she was comforted by his life (his great life, full of laughs and jokes and smiles) flashing before his eyes and leading him away from her, to what she hopes, was her mother, waiting patiently for her one great and true love to join her.

 

Molly Hooper always grew up with the notion that before you die, your life, your accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, flash before your eyes.

 

She was wrong.

* * *

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

 

Molly jolts upright in bed, breath heaving as she breathes heavily, the room filling with her noises as she attempts to calm down. She blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkened room and she leans against her headboard, the cool wood spreading goosebumps across her sweat slicked body.

 

Her sheets cling to her and she peels them off, dragging her legs over the side of the bed and breathing deeply. She clenches her hands in the duvet. The flat is quiet, almost eerily so and she jumps, a small shriek emitting from her mouth when Toby claws at the door and darts inside her room.

 

She’s terrified of her own cat now. _Wonderful._

 

(She curses the day James Moriarty came into their lives and blew it all to _hell.)_

 

She doesn’t hesitate in flying off her bed and shrugging on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized sweater (she only belatedly realizes that it’s one of Tom’s. He left it at her flat in his haste to move out and away from her. Away from the heartbreak she _always_ manages to leave behind.)

 

She leaves food out for Toby and grabs her keys, locking her flat and darts down the hallway and out of the building, hailing a cab and throwing a familiar address at him.

 

She’s gnawing at her thumb as the bright lights of London pass her by and she’s lost in thought until the cabbie clears his throat and gestures to the meter and the building outside. She fishes out her money and hands him it, telling him to keep the change. She gets out of the cab and before she can turn back around and tell him to take her back, because this is _ridiculous,_ he’s gone.

 

(She’s a grown woman. She shouldn’t be terrified of what she and ultimately all of fucking England likely saw on television. But she is.)

 

His voice haunts her in her sleep, the ghost of his lips and his hands and the way he used to smile lovingly at her, it all _haunts_ her. It makes her sick to her stomach.

 

_Did you miss me?_

 

Her hand is on the handle and she takes a deep breath, unable to let it fall against the door. It’s late. Or early. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t…she should be back home, but before she can turn around and walk away, the door opens and Mrs. Hudson smiles sleepily at her.

 

“I was just up to grab a cup of water and saw you. Nearly scared me half to death, you did.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson.” Molly says, shuffling her feet and smiling at her as she steps inside.

 

“Don’t be. But don’t expect this all the time.”

 

Molly lets out a small laugh, “I won’t.”

 

Mrs. Hudson nods and looks up the stairs, giving her a sly grin, “well, off you go.”

 

Molly whispers goodnight and makes her way up the stairs slowly and carefully. When she gets to the top, she pushes the door open and is met with a mess. Papers are thrown about; the walls are marked up, bullet holes riddling them. She sees pictures of everyone she knows, Greg, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Anthea, even Anderson and Donovan and herself and in the center is a picture of the one man she thought she would _never_ have to see again. Of the one man she _never_ _wanted_ to see again.

 

_He’s dead;_ she thinks to herself, her hands trembling, he’s dead. _I did his fucking autopsy._

 

Which is why the thought, the mere idea, that he is back is _ridiculous_. Laughable really.

 

(Except, none of them are laughing.)

 

“Molly.”

 

Molly twirls around and sees Sherlock sitting in his chair, his dressing gown open, the white alabaster of his skin glowing in the moonlight. Her chest clenches at how ethereal he looks and she’s reminded of the marble statues of Gods amongst men in Rome and Greece. His fingers are steepled underneath his chin, bare feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes staring at her.

 

“Hi.” She says, her throat dry. She licks her lips, “I just…it’s just…I can’t…I should go. I can go.”

 

“Don’t.” He says, his hands reaching out and catching hers, his thumbs pressing against her pulse point and she wonders if he can feel how it pounds erratically. “Can’t sleep?”

 

She nods, cheeks flushing, “it’s stupid. I know it is. I just…every time I close my eyes. He’s _all I see_. His voice is inside my head and I shouldn’t…but…” she trails off, unable to finish her train of thought. (In the grand scheme of things, she shouldn’t worry, because for all intents and purposes, she doesn’t count. Not to James Moriarty.) She shakes her head, trying to dispel thoughts of him and she bites her lip, craning her head to look up at Sherlock who is still staring at her intensely, his hands leaving her wrist and settling on her hips. His hands are wide, spanning over her hips and his fingers dig into the small of her back, pulling her towards him with a sharp tug.

 

She stumbles forwards, her hands planting themselves against his chest and she sighs, feeling his heart beat wildly under the palms of her hands. She steps on her tiptoes, her lips a hair’s breadth away from his and she kisses the corner of his lips.

 

(Her body is tingling with want and need and desperation and she hopes against all hope _,_ that he feels the same.)

 

His left hand leaves her hip and cradles the back of her head, fingers carding through her hair and pulling her face towards his, his lips crashing down on hers.

 

(The first time she comes here in the dead of night, she doesn’t intend for this to happen. But it does. And she thinks it’s a one-off and she was okay with that, resigning herself to tasting him and having him once, only to never have him again. But then it happens _again_. And then _again_. And just like an addict, just like _him_ , she falls into a routine that’s hard to break. It’s not one she _wants_ to break. She just wants to drown in him.)

* * *

She’s panting heavily, her moans echoing off the walls. His sheets are bunched around her waist, his hands clinging to her to the point of bruising, but she relishes in it. In the marks that only the two of them will ever see.

 

She moves her hips jerkily, her orgasm just on the peak. She leans forward, her erect nipples grazing his chest and she kisses him, tongue battling with his. He growls deep in his throat, his hips snapping up to meet hers and she cries out her completion into his mouth.

 

His hands tighten around her and he twists her around, onto her back and settles between her legs again and thrusts deeply. She cries out and wraps her legs around his waist. “Sherlock.” She gasps. “God, yes. Oh… _oh_ …”

 

He buries his head in the crook of her neck, his mouth sucking on her pulse point, teeth nipping his mark and his hips start to lose their precision and he thrusts one, twice and then he explodes into her, a guttural cry emitting from his mouth. “Molly. Molly. _Molly_.” He softly whispers, barely audible against her slick skin.

 

She babbles, her hand running through his hair, her hips shifting.

 

He pulls out of her and falls to her side, creating a small space between them.

 

Molly suddenly feels cold and goosebumps erupt on her skin, her hands falling to her sides.

 

Sherlock is on his back, his hand barely ( _but there_ , she can _feel_ him, can feel the ghostly whisper of his fingers moving against her own hand) caressing hers.

 

She’s getting tired, her body sore in the most fantastic of ways. Her hands grapple the bed sheet and she lifts it up to cover herself, though she hardly thinks it hides her erect nipples that pointedly stand at attention under the crisp white sheet.

 

“You’ll catch him.” She says, after her breath has returned to normal and after she thinks she can talk without crying. “You’ll catch him. You always do.” She turns around, pulling her hand away from his barely there caresses and huddles into herself. Her eyes seek out the periodic table and she goes to sleep reciting it.

 

(She slips into a dreamless sleep and she doesn’t let herself believe it had anything to do with calloused fingers drawing unknown shapes on her back.)

* * *

_“I had a dream.”_

_“Molly, really-”_

_“Moriarty was in it. He’s always in them. He’s always haunting me.”_

_He falls silent and leans back in his chair. “What happens in this dream?”_

_She can tell that he doesn’t put much stock in dreams and their meanings and generally, neither would she, but there is something about this particular dream that is so vivid and real, that it continues to wake her up in the dark of the night, gasping for air and breath. “He kills me.” Silence reigns and Molly clears his throat. “You’ll catch him.”_

_“Yes.” He says, his voice oddly tight, “I will.”_

 

(I killed you once; _Molly thinks to herself,_ please don’t let me die.)

* * *

“Did you miss me?” His voice is mocking and the Irish lilt is strong. “Even you have to love the poetic greatness of this.” He gestures to his surroundings, his arm wrapped tightly around her neck and the other lazily holding a loaded gun.

 

The smell of chlorine is strong and she looks at the calm water and tries not to look at Sherlock and John.

 

“And everyone thought I’d forgotten about Miss Molly.” He laughs and it’s loud, boisterous and cynical, border lining sadistic and definitely psychotic. “You see, when Magnussen, whom let me tell you, failed me tremendously, so really Sherly, you did me a fantastic favor, killing him-I don’t like getting my hands dirty, you understand-told me about your pressure points, and my, my, there were quite a few-I was surprised he didn’t mention our dear mutual lover, _Molly_.”

 

Molly winces and struggles, her skin crawling with disgust and shame.

 

He pretends to gasp, as if an idea came to him, “and that’s when I realized, of course she _isn’t_ a pressure point. She’s the _entire fucking mind palace_ of yours. She’s the queen to your king, she’s your _bolt hole_.” A sickening sweet sound leaves his throat, “Aw…didn’t brother dearest tell you that _caring isn’t an advantage_ , Sherlock?”

 

“Let her go.” Sherlock says, his voice venomous, the grip on his gun tightening. “She has nothing to do with this.”

 

“ _SHE HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THIS!”_ Moriarty roars, his voice bouncing off the walls and echoing. “Don’t you see, Sherlock? She has everything to do with this.” There is a pause, “doesn’t she John? How’s the family, John? Baby and Mary doing well?”

 

“You psychotic bastard. You…you…shut up.” John snaps. “Shut the fuck up. Molly.” John says, “Molly, you’re going to be fine. You’re going to…we’re going to get you home.”

 

“Eh…best not make promises you can’t keep, Doctor.” She can feel him shrug, “it’s best this way. She could never have made you happy, Sherlock. She’s meek. Pathetic. Weak. Can barely get herself out of this. Women like Molly Hooper don’t deserve men like you and me Sherlock.”

 

Tears prick her eyes at his words, her chest bubbling and burning. She can feel her body start to tremble and she finally ( _finally_ ) locks eyes with Sherlock. His eyes are wild, wide and dangerous. She can see his nostrils flare and she can see little puffs of air where he breathes heavily.

 

And maybe…maybe he’s right. She doesn’t belong with Sherlock. She never did. She just deluded herself into thinking she did. She closes her eyes and thinks back to the nameless woman on her morgue slab and the way Sherlock looked when he identified her by _not-her-face_. She thinks about Janine with her bright eyes and cheeky grin. She thinks that _they_ would have found a way out of this by now.

 

She lets out a deep breath and opens her eyes, she can see Sherlock’s lips moving, but she can’t hear what’s being said from the pounding in her ears. She looks at John who is at Sherlock’s side, his gun trained on Moriarty and she feels sick to her stomach. He has a family. He has a newborn baby and a beautiful wife, who Molly considers as the sister she never had.

 

Her eyes turn to Sherlock and she thinks about his mother and father and Mrs. Hudson and Greg and she even thinks about Mycroft.

 

(She thinks about the importance of these two men in front of her and the people who love them. And then she thinks about herself. She thinks about her dead mother and father. She thinks about how, in the grand scheme of things, she _still_ doesn’t count. Not really. She’s just a pawn. She’s expendable. Replaceable.)

 

Taking a deep breath, she shifts and she sees John’s eyes as they lock on hers and his grey blue eyes widen, mouth opening, as if warning (begging) her _not to do it. Don’t. We can get you out of this._

 

Without second thought, she slams her heel against Moriarty’s foot, throws her head back, slamming it into his face. Her skull erupts in pain as she hears a sickening crunch behind her. She’s disoriented, dizzy, from the impact and she turns around, facing Moriarty and her breath stops, the pounding increasing in her ears, drowning out all sound, as she stares at the barrel of his gun.

 

There is a split second of silence and through her haze she can hear John yell, “ _MARY_!” (Which is _odd_ , because she knows that he knows, her name is _Molly_ ) but then she stops thinking because there is a loud bang and her body is thrown back, burning with the impact of the bullet ripping through her skin and her insides.

 

(Before she falls, she sees Moriarty’s smile freeze in place as a bullet meets his forehead, blood and brains sprouting from the other side.)

_“MOLLY_!”

 

She blinks, her eyes finding the ceiling of the swimming pool arena and stares at the pillars, her fingers weakly clawing at the tiled floor. “Molly. _Molly. Molly_.” Hands are cradling her face and she feels hands pressing into her wound. She can vaguely hear rushed footsteps and Mary’s familiar voice, shrieking and sobbing ( _Mary…?_ She wants to call out, _Mary, what are you doing here? Go home. Be with your family_.) “Open your eyes. Molly Hooper, you open your _fucking_ eyes, right now.” Molly blinks and looks up, seeing familiar blue-green eyes. She tries to frown but the movement is too much.

 

“I had him, Molly. I was going to _save_ you.” He tells her, his voice nearing hysterical and it’s the most emotion she’s seen from him, besides the time she slapped him three times and he looked shameful and distraught to see her evident disappointment in his relapse

 

_You shouldn’t have had to_ , she wants to tell him, _you should have never had to save me._

 

“ _You_ saved me before and I _will_ save you now.”

 

She doesn’t know what he’s talking about and can’t find it in her think about it too much. She’s getting cold, her body growing weak.

 

“You shouldn’t…why did you do it? Damn it, Molly, _why_?”

 

_Because I don’t count_ , she thinks. It’s only when she see the shocked and horrified look on his face and the way he staggers away from her, as if she physically hit him (again) she realizes she said the words aloud.

 

(She wishes she had the time to tell him that _it’s alright. It’s okay. I love you. I’ll always love you, Sherlock Holmes.)_

 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she closes her eyes and welcomes the darkness beckoning her like a long lost best friend.

 

(And then there is nothing.)

* * *

Molly Hooper always grew up with the notion that before you die, your life, your accomplishments, regrets, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love, flash before your eyes.

 

She was wrong.

 

There is no bright white light. There are no flashes of her life, her accomplishments, her regrets, her moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love. Instead, there is just a face, a familiar face with prominent cheekbones and blue-green eyes.

 

(She thinks it’s fitting. That Sherlock Holmes would follow her, even in death.)

 


	2. Part 2

 

_Molly. You need to wake up. You need to come back. Molly._

* * *

 

When she opens her eyes, it’s to bright florescent lights and the smell of disinfectant. She recognizes the smell immediately as hospital with a hint of _Hugo Boss_ cologne. She turns her head and sees Sherlock, body folded neatly into himself, on the chair, eyes closed and chest rising and falling gently.

 

She’s still so tired and he’s always looked peaceful when he’s sleeping, that she doesn’t wake him. Instead, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, allowing sleep to overcome her.

 

(When she wakes up the next time, Mary is there, clutching her hand and John is standing behind her, chest heaving in relief and Mrs. Hudson bursts into tears. But Sherlock is gone. His chair empty and Molly wonders if she just imagined him.)

* * *

“You know,” Tom says, conversationally, placing a stuffed teddy bear and a box of chocolate on her bedside cabinet, “if you married me, I wouldn’t have got you shot.”

 

“No.” Molly shoots back, her lips turning into a barely there grin, “it probably would have been a meat dagger.”

 

Tom laughs and it’s loud and he’s reprimanded by a severe looking nurse. He puts his fingers against his lips and promises to not be so loud. He turns his head towards Molly, fingers still against his lips and shakes his head at her, as if telling her, _shh…I’ve just lied to a nurse._

 

This should be awkward, and for all intents and purposes, for about a month, it _was_. Trying to salvage some sort of relationship with Tom, because despite what people have said and what people thought (and she’s not an idiot, she _knows_ what everyone said and she knows what people thought) was hard but she really did _love_ Tom. Barring the meat dagger fiasco at the wedding (which he constantly laments was because how much he had to drink, which was _nothing_ , but Molly lets him have his small victories. Sometimes), she thinks she could have been _happy_ with him.

 

(She thinks she could have started a life with him. Like she intended. Until Sherlock Holmes came back into her life and blew her carefully re-constructed world to pieces.)

 

She is glad though that they have gotten to the point where they consider themselves friends. Because she does miss talking to him and she does miss his quirks (like how he can quote every single _Doctor Who_ episode) and his outrageously off-kilter singing voice.

 

_“I was rightfully pissed at you.” Tom tells her as soon as he sits down across the table from her at the coffee shop, around the corner from her flat. They used to come here, Sunday afternoons or evenings and watch people as they walked by and talked about everything and nothing._

_At the very least, she’s happy that he agreed to this meeting. “Tom, the last thing I ever-”_

_He holds up his hands, “I know, Molly. I know.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “and truthfully, I would have ended up doing the same thing.”_

_“What?”_

_He gives her a sympathetic, albeit sad smile, “come on, Molly. I’d be a complete tool to marry someone who is completely in love with someone else.”_

_She doesn’t say anything and they change the subject to anything and everything._

 

“How are you feeling?” He asks her, bringing her out of her memory. He’s holding out the chocolate box, already open and gesturing for her to take one. She shakes her head and he smiles as he plucks one from the box, “I’m just going to have one then. Or a few.”

 

“Have the box.” Molly says, chuckling softly, “those are your favorite. Not mine.”

 

“Oh,” he says cheekily, “I know.”

 

They fall back into old habits, Tom lamenting about his family and Molly listening with half an ear. Until they lapse into silence and Tom clears his throat. “So,” Tom says, “Has he come by?”

 

She knows exactly who he’s talking about even without him saying a name.

 

“Once.” She answers truthfully, her mind going back to the first night she awoke and saw him curled into himself on the chair next to her bed. She still doesn’t know if it was real or a figment of her imagination. “I don’t…he doesn’t…feel that way about me.”

 

“Bollocks.” Tom announces, “Molls, that man is…totally and awkwardly in love with you.”

 

Her heart flutters. “Don’t say that.” _(Don’t give me hope, Tom. Please.)_

 

“Molly, in the time that we were together, how many times did you warn me about Sherlock Holmes and the horrible, soul-shattering things he’d likely say _about_ me _to_ me?”

 

“A lot.”

 

He nods, “ _A lot._ And how many times did he say horrible, soul-shattering things about me to me?”

 

Molly doesn’t answer, the reply on the tip of her tongue. _Never. He never once opened his mouth to say anything horrible about you._

 

“He could have. God, knows I gave him the opportunities to say them, but he didn’t. Because for once, maybe, just maybe, he saw that you were happy and he wanted that for you. He wanted you to be happy, even if it was with a man that wasn’t him.”

 

“It’s all speculation Tom.” ( _Stop doing this to me. Stop…giving me hope. Please.)_

 

He shrugs and gets up, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles on is slack. He takes the chocolate box and puts it in the crook of his elbow. He leans forward and kisses her forehead. “Get better, Molly.”

 

“Tom,” she calls out hesitantly, her smile wavering, “I _am_ sorry it didn’t work out between us.”

 

He waves it off, “you’re meant for someone more than me.”

 

“How do you know?” She asks. She doesn’t plead, she doesn’t beg. It’s more out of pure curiosity than anything else.

 

“How do you _not_?” He counters. He taps the doorframe and nods his head at her.

 

She watches him walk away until he disappears and then she’s alone.

* * *

_Listen to me, Molly. You cannot let go. You need to fight. Focus. Molly, focus on me. Just me. Focus me. Come back._

* * *

Mary is the one who help her when she’s finally discharged from the hospital. She’s still sore and her body is still recuperating, but there’s something so…refreshing about breathing in London air. It’s familiar to her, the sounds of cars driving past her and the smell of exhaust and the hustle and bustle of people walking by, without a glance towards the woman in an oversized coat.

 

Mary drives her back to her flat and Molly clenches her hands into fists, her nails making little crescent moon shapes in her palm and bites her bottom lip, teeth gnawing at the flesh of her lip to keep her from asking Mary to turn the car around and take her to 221b Baker Street.

 

(There is an ache in her chest, right where James Moriarty shot her, whenever she thinks of Sherlock Holmes and she doesn’t know whether or not that’s a good thing.)

 

“I’ve been coming around and feeding him.” Mary tells her as she opens the flat door and steps in, Toby prancing around their ankles. “He’s an affectionate one.”

 

“Overly so.”

 

They lapse into silence as Mary wraps helps her onto the couch and makes her way into the kitchen to make tea.

 

When she comes back out, she’s carrying two steaming mugs and settles on the other side of the couch. She takes a deep breath and runs her thumb over the rim of her mug. “You’ve questions.” Mary states plainly, her voice devoid of emotion.

 

She does. Molly has a lot of questions, some of them pertaining as to why Mary was even at the pool arena in the first place, some of them about what happened afterwards. Most of them are about Sherlock and why she hasn’t seen him. She bites her tongue to keep from asking if it’s something she did because she was ready (and did) to die for that man.

 

Molly gives her a small smile. “Doesn’t truly matter does it? About the questions I have, I mean. You’re here. That’s all that matters. I don’t particularly care about your past.”

 

Mary sniffles and wipes at her eyes. “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath and stares at her. “Aren’t you going to ask about Sherlock, then?”

 

Molly shakes her head, her chest tightening painfully. “No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because,” she says, trying to get the words out of her mouth without being reduced to tears, “I’m terrified of the answer.”

 

(He could be on a case. He could be in another country. He could be kidnapped. He could be dead for all she knows, though she knows he’s not. He could be in rehab. He could have overdosed, again. There are a thousand logical reasons why he’s staying away from her, but she always comes back to the one haunting reason that resonates in her mind and keeps her awake at night with fear gripping her heart; that she doesn’t count.)

 

* * *

_You saved me once, Molly. And I never thanked you for that, did I? I’ve never thanked you for always keeping me alive._

* * *

_“Did you miss me?”_

_“Even you have to love the poetic greatness of this.”_

_“And everyone thought I’d forgotten about Miss Molly.”_

_“Of course she isn’t a pressure point. She’s the entire fucking mind palace of yours. The queen to your king. She’s your bolt hole.”_

_“SHE HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THIS!”_

_“Women like Molly Hooper don’t deserve men like you and me, Sherlock.”_

_Women like Molly Hooper don’t deserve men like you and me, Sherlock._

_Women like Molly Hooper don’t deserve men like you and-_

 

With a gasp, Molly bolts upright in bed, her vision blurred, her breath caught at the base of her throat, choking her, suffocating her. She swings her legs over the side of her bed and half stumbles; half runs to the adjoining bathroom, sinking to her knees with a painful thud, the pain resounding in her body.

 

She breathes heavily; body heaving as she waits for her stomach to empty its contents, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she’s left feeling like lead has settled in the pit of her stomach and she leans against the wall, salty tears stinging her eyes and cheeks.

 

Her body trembles, his voice and words echoing in her ears and mind. Her fingers claw at the linoleum floor and she blinks rapidly, trying to erase his taunts and jeers from her mind. She brings a hand to the other side of her chest, mindful of the bandages and gently draws little circles, trying to ease the ache that has exploded there.

 

She wills her body back to bed and draws the covers over her. After a moment’s hesitation, she reaches over and flicks on her bedside lamp. With the room enveloped in a dim light, Molly breathes a little easier. Her fingers grip the covers and she finds it hard to keep her body still.

 

(In the past, before all of this, she would already be in a cab, watching London pass her by from the window as the cab takes her towards the only place she’s ever felt truly safe.)

 

She wonders what that says about her, to be so tragically in love with a man who for all intents and purposes, doesn’t know how to love at all.

 

( _Not true_ , her mind tells her, images of her, of him, of _them_ ; flashing rapidly before her. _He loves differently. More intensely_.)

 

Molly doesn’t sleep that night. Instead, she lays awake, her eyes trained to the ceiling, fingers aching from the death grip she has on her covers and calls out for a man who doesn’t come.

* * *

John is with her when she gets her stitches taken out. He watches intently and gives her a small, strained smile whenever he catches her eyes.

 

“You’re healing nicely.” The doctor tells her when he finishes, flashing her a reassuring smile that she has seen one too many times.

 

She doesn’t mean to, but she snorts in response.

 

John’s eyes snap towards her and they harden, ever so slightly and she sees the way he straightens his back. It’s in that moment that she can see him as _John Watson the Soldier,_ the part of his life that he keeps hidden away, only coming out when time calls for it.

 

She smiles gratefully at him when he lets her lean against his arm on their way out of the hospital.

 

“I could always kill him and make it look like an accident.” John offers after a few minutes of silence.

 

She lets a laugh bubble out of her. It burns and she can feel the frustratingly telltale signs of tears building behind her eyes. “I’m fine.” She says, “I’m fine. Everything is…fine.” She grabs the handle of the cab that pulls up to the curb and she eases herself into the backseat. “I’ll be fine from here.” She bites her lip and looks at John who is staring down at her worriedly, “he’s…he’s doing all right though, yeah?”

 

John’s mouth gapes open, “you were _shot_. In the _chest_ by a mad _psychopath_ and you’re asking if Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes is all right? Blimey, you’re something else Molly.”

 

“John,” Molly begs and then stops herself, because in all this time, she has never begged or pleaded for information about him, “please.” _Is he okay? Is he healthy? He hasn’t…God, please tell me he isn’t on drugs. Does he ask about me? Why hasn’t he come to see me? Have I done something wrong? Do I mean that little to him?_ She doesn’t realize she’s said her last question aloud until she sees John’s eyes harden the way they did back in the hospital room. His grip on the door tightens and she sees the tick in his jaw.

 

He doesn’t say anything and she feels a burning in her chest, her body, her mind, her _entire being_ and she gives him a watery smile. Grabbing the door away from his fingers and folding her feet inside the cab. “It’s all right.” She says, her voice trembling. “I’ll be all right.” She closes the door and waves at him through the window.

 

 

(She doesn’t know if she’s trying to convince John, herself or Sherlock.)

* * *

_I need you Molly. I just…I need you. Come back to me._

* * *

Two days after her stitches come out, Molly is at Tesco, where she bumps into, of all people in the world, Janine.

 

The black haired woman stares at her, her mouth falling open and then she smiles brightly at her. Her eyes shining in recognition. “Hi Molly.”

 

Molly smiles back. She likes Janine, truly she does. During Mary’s Hen Night, it was Janine who was interested in what she did. It was Janine who although looked a bit green while Molly discussed some autopsies, she listened anyways. It was Janine who waited for her while she was in the loo and it was Janine who laughed and talked with her.

 

(She thinks it’s only reasonable then that she felt hurt, betrayed even, when word got out that Sherlock was dating Janine.)

 

She felt more anger though when she found out it was all a ruse and that Sherlock Holmes would do _anything_ for a case. Even if it meant stringing along a woman’s emotions and feelings for him. (She wonders if this makes her his greatest case.)

 

“Hi Janine. How are you?”

 

Janine laughs, “I should be asking you that. Are you…well…I mean…obviously, you’re all right. I saw it…on the telly.” She adds after a moment’s hesitation.

 

Molly nods and moves her carriage around to accommodate people walking up and down the aisle. “I’m getting there.”

 

They lapse into an awkward silence and Molly is about to make some excuse to leave, when Janine holds up her hand and takes a deep breath. “I feel like…I just…I should explain.”

 

Molly feels dread build in her stomach. “It’s fine, Janine. I don’t-”

 

“We didn’t have sex.” She blurts out and then she turns red, “it’s not for a lack of trying on my part, because I _tried_. I’d have been a fool not to. But he kept…he didn’t…and at first I thought the rumors were true but there were things that seemed…he talked about you _a lot_. And the way…his eyes they would just…light up…genuinely and softly…gently even whenever your name was brought up.”

 

Molly can feel her breath become uneven and she grips the handle of her carriage tightly, leaning against it for support. “But you were engaged and then you weren’t and then I was and then I wasn’t and then I found out the entire thing was a farce, which truthfully, I’m not complaining because the amount of money these mags will throw at you for a story…” she laughs and it’s a little bitter, a little sad and Molly feels an overwhelming sense of empathy for her. “And then you were shot and I _saw_ him you know, Sherlock. I went to visit you when you were in the hospital and I walked by your room and he was there and he looked… _wrecked_. Devastated, just sitting there, waiting for you. I didn’t go in. Didn’t feel right to and I just…I’m _sorry_.”

 

“What could you possible be sorry for?” Molly asks her breathlessly, her bones growing limp. She’s overcome with information, a sensory overload in every way possible.

 

“I’m sorry for trying to take your place in his life.” Janine gives Molly a bright smile that seems strained and fake and Molly wonders how lonely she is even with all the money that she’s recently come into. If she feels the acute pain of humiliation at being in the middle of Sherlock’s ploy (and not for the first time, she thinks of what he’s capable of doing and unbidden, a memory of Christmas past comes to mind.) “You’re irreplaceable to him.” She squeezes her forearm as she walks past, her heels clicking against the floor. “I’m glad you’re okay, Molly. We should…you, Mary and I…we should go out sometime.”

 

“I’d like that.” Molly says.

 

She watches as Janine walks by her, down the aisle and around the bend, and then she collapses against the shelves, her body shaking, trembling with knowledge that, deep in her heart, her mind, her body, her _entire being_ , she already knew, but didn’t want to entertain (didn’t want to hope against all hope.)

_He was there and he looked…wrecked. Devastated._

_You’re irreplaceable to him._

 

“Miss.” She hears a voice call out to her. “Miss. You okay?”

 

 

It takes her a moment to respond but she blinks at the young man in front of her and nods, “yes. Yes. I think I will be.”

* * *

She gasps when she walks into her sitting room, hands flying to her chest, eyes wide as she drinks him in.

 

He’s sitting on a chair, hands steepled underneath his chin and he looks up when she enters. He gets up, hands falling to his sides as he studies her. He frowns as he sniffs the air. “You’ve had a run in with Janine.”

 

She nods and points to the barely there anymore, bruise on his cheek. “Is that from John?”

 

His fingers graze the offending spot and he shakes his head. “Mrs. Hudson, if you could believe it.”

 

Molly lets out a laugh and then bites her lip. His lips crack a grin and then it fades when he sees the way her hands are still clutched at her chest. He walks closer to her and stops. He’s so close to her, she can smell his cologne ( _Hugo Boss_ and it’s _intoxicating_ and hauntingly familiar) and she can feel the wool of his Belstaff coat. She aches to reach out and grip the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer to her, where he belongs. (Where he’s _always_ belonged.)

 

His hands reach forward, fingertips grazing her hands and then he drops them, as if the feeling of her skin has shocked him.

 

(There is a physical pain when he pulls his hands away from her, one that sends her reeling.)

 

He clears his throat, “how are you feeling?”

 

She wants to tell him that she still hurts all over. That looking at him hurts her because she has done everything for him, she has given him everything she has and all she asked for, all she has _ever_ asked for is the reciprocation that she believes she deserves. She wants to tell him that she’s not sleeping (though one look at her and she knows he’s dissecting every inch of her.) She wants to lie to him and tell him that she’s fine. That she’ll be fine. But she doesn’t, because he’s Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper has made it a point in her life to _never_ lie to him. So, instead, she tells him the truth that she thinks he deserves, “I still have nightmares.”

 

His head snaps up and he looks at her, a little bit hurt, a little bit betrayed. “You never came.”

 

And without explanation, without goading for more information, she understands what he’s referring to (and she closes her eyes, remembering the nights where she came to him, mind still fresh from the onslaught of nightmares and she remembers the feeling of his skin on hers, the way his fingers dug into her hips and the way his lips traced fiery paths down her body and the way they claimed each other.) She opens her eyes and shrugs, trying to seem unaffected by her emotions. “Neither did you.” She replies.

 

He sucks in a deep breath, his brows frowning and she cocks her head to the side, trying to ease her breathing as she watches his mind twist and turn. She wishes she could deduce people like he can. She wishes that with one look, she could know what he’s thinking. That for a moment, just a _moment_ , she could understand what he thinks about when he retreats to the halls and rooms of his mind palace. (Secretly, she thinks it must be a magnificent place to always garner his full attention.)

 

“Molly,” he says, his voice deep and for the first time, she hears the insecurity and vulnerability in his voice. “You were hurt. You _died_.”

 

“I know, Sherlock.” She says.

 

“No.” He says, a little more forceful, a little more fearful, “you died _because_ of me.”

 

She frowns. “I made a choice, because Moriarty-”

 

“A choice,” he interrupts, “you should _never_ have had to make. He never should have…I never should have…” he growls and runs his hands through his hair, his frustration evident, “you should never have gotten hurt.”

 

“But I did.” She says. “Sherlock, I _died_.”

 

“I _know!”_ He explodes, his voice echoing through the flat.

 

Toby mewls and dives under the sofa and Molly takes in a deep breath and clenches her fists, her nails making crescent moon shapes in the palm of her hands. “I died.” She repeats.

 

He sits down on the sofa, his body collapsing into it. “I know.”

 

She toes off her shoes and follows him, sitting so that her legs are folded underneath her. “Sherlock,” she says and she can feel the pressure build behind her eyes and she knows that they shine with unshed tears. “I died.”

 

He grimaces and his hands tighten against his sides and she watches as his breathing becomes labored and the way his jaw ticks and the way his body betrays his mind. She watches the reaction he has to her words, to the unfailing truth that she will always, _always_ , give him. “I _know_.”

 

And she knows what he doesn’t say. _You shouldn’t have died. I should have stopped this long ago. I’m sorry. I failed you. Forgive me._

 

She reaches for him and cups his face between her hands and turns him towards him. “Sherlock, I _died_.” She repeats, “and everyone…I…I grew up believing that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Every accomplishment, regret, moments of spontaneity and all-consuming love…they were all supposed to flash before my eyes.” She takes in a deep shaky breath and ignores the tears that trail down her cheeks. She refuses to feel ashamed crying in his presence. Not after he, she (they) have been through. “But the only thing I saw, was _you.”_

 

His eyes, for the first time since she held his face in her hands, meet hers and he looks at her with all the feelings and emotions that he has never been able to convey with words. “I died to protect you.” She tells him softly, leaning forward until her mouth is a hair’s breadth away from his, “and God help me, I always will. _Always_.”

 

“Molly.” He says softly, his hands reaching up and his thumbs brushing away her tears with such tenderness that it makes her cry more. “Molly. Molly. _Molly_.” He kisses one cheek and then the other and when he pulls away, his thumb brushes over her bottom lip, trembling underneath his touch. He leans forward, meeting her in the middle and presses his lips against hers. “Molly. _My Molly.”_ He confesses everything she ever wanted (needed) to hear, in the way he says her name and the way he holds her reverently in his hands.

 

She melts and moans against his lips, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him tighter, itching and aching to feel him against her. (She never thought she would get to feel _this_ again, feel _him_ again, and it feels like swimming and drowning and freedom.)

 

She pulls away and places her forehead against his.

 

_“Molly.”_ He says.

 

 

Her eyes flutter close and her heart beats rapidly and soundly against her chest. “ _I know_.”

* * *

They’re naked and the way he touches her makes her want to cry all over again.

 

His hands ghost down her body and she arches her back, her body tingling. His fingertips graze against her wound, still protruding and ugly against her skin. “I know.” She sighs, “It’s ugly.”

 

He doesn’t say anything and instead grabs her hand and places it between them so that her hand is covering where she knows his wound is. Her fingers automatically trace where she knows it is. It’s barely a scar now, but she can feel the raised edges and she feels the way Sherlock shivers against her touch and how he thrusts against her. She lets out a small moan as his mouth kisses her wound, his hands tracing up her stomach to cup her breasts and thumbs brushing against her pointed nipples.

 

She lets out a strangled cry as his mouth moves from its place, laying worship to the wound that almost took her life, and encircles against one nipple. Sucking hard and teeth nibbling against it. He switches to her other nipple, lavishing the same attention on it as he did with its twin and she brings her hands to his hair, fingers sinking into his curls and pressing his head against her. When he lifts his head, her nipple falling from his mouth, he’s breathing heavily and not wasting any time in slamming his mouth against hers, his tongue slipping into her mouth and relearning the contours that belong solely to her.

 

“Sherlock, please.” She gasps, her back arching and pressing against his slick hardness.

 

“Condom.” He breathes.

 

She puts her hands over her face as his fingers spread her apart and swirl at her entrance gathering her juices and sucking his fingers obscenely. “Pill.” She groans. “Sherlock, _I need you_ , please-”

 

With a strangled cry, he presses into her, grabbing her hands and interlacing their fingers, holding them tightly as he thrusts in and out of her.

 

A sob catches in her throat. God, how long has she _waited_ for this? How long has she dreamed of this? When, after the nightmares came and went and she lay in her bed, struggling to remember the way his body fit perfectly into hers and the immense fear that ripped through her at the thought of not having him in her life.

 

She grips his hands tighter and meets his thrusts, “Sherlock.” She moans, “Sherlock. Fuck. God. Yes… _Sherlock_ , please.”

 

His thrusts lose some of their elegance as he continues to piston his hips and she can feel her cresting orgasm as she begs for _more_ and _don’t stop, Sherlock, don’t stop. Please._

 

When she is thrown over the edge, he follows quickly, her keening wails echoing in her empty flat and his groans resonating off the walls.

 

He lays atop her, his cock twitching inside of her and she wraps her arms around him, welcoming his weight.

 

She presses kisses to his sweaty forehead as he rests his head against her chest, ear pressed firmly against her heartbeat. She can feel his hands squeezing hers in tandem to the beats of her heart and the flow of her rapid pulse.

 

 

(He ends up falling asleep like that. Ear pressed against her heartbeat, making sure it beats strong and soundly underneath him.)

* * *

She’s panting heavily above him, body heaving with her orgasm as she leans forward, her nipples grazing his chest, head pressed in the crook of his neck. She works his skin in her mouth as she finishes her orgasm, body finding release from him for the second time that night.

 

He lies gasping, spent, beneath her and when she rises off of him, settling into his side, he pulls her close. Her leg thrown over his, the wetness of her sex pressing against his outer thigh.

 

“I don’t have a room designated for you in my mind palace.” He says after he catches his breath. She doesn’t even have a chance to feel hurt when he continues, “you _are_ my mind palace. You are my logic and reason and my sentiment where I thought I had none.”

 

She lifts her head up and stares at him. “Sherlock, why…?” She lets the questions drop; unaware of how she should finish.

 

“I thought you should know.”

 

She bites her lip and nods. “When I was dying. Or dead. I wasn’t…what I mean to say is that I had given up.”

 

“What happened?” He asks, his voice heavy and thick.

 

“You did.” She confesses. “You did.”

 

She leans down and kisses him, overwhelmed with his confession and exhausted from their bouts of sex.

 

_(“You were meant for someone more than me.” Tom says._

_“How do you know?”_

 

_“How do you not?”)_

* * *

_It’s bright (like fluorescent lights) and quiet here. Peaceful. It’s both everything and nothing that she thought death would be like._

_She walks along the empty halls, her fingers tracing unknown shapes into the walls, relishing in the quietness that surrounds her._

Molly. You need to wake up. You need to come back. Molly.

_She blinks, recognizing the deep baritone voice that cuts through the silence and disrupts the peacefulness._

_“Sherlock?” She calls out, hesitantly. His voice is garbled, like he’s underwater but she can hear his words clearly._

Listen to me, Molly. You cannot let go. You need to fight. Focus. Molly, focus on me. Just me. Focus me. Come back.

_She frowns and looks around, her hands going to her chest to ease the pain that suddenly blossomed. “Why?”_

You saved me once, Molly. And I never thanked you for that, did I? I’ve never thanked you for always keeping me alive.

_She can feel her body grow weak and tired and she leans against the wall, struggling to breathe against the pain that’s erupting in her body. Chaos reigns around her and she hears other voices, some of them yelling and some of them panicked. She can hear beeping and demands and the smell of disinfectant and Hugo Boss cologne overwhelm her senses. “Why?” She repeats. “Why? Tell me why I should come back.”_

I need you Molly. I just…I need you. Come back to me.

_She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, allowing darkness to overcome her._

 

_(When she opens her eyes, it’s to bright florescent lights and the smell of disinfectant. She recognizes the smell immediately as hospital with a hint of Hugo Boss cologne. She turns her head and sees Sherlock, body folded neatly into himself, on the chair, eyes closed and chest rising and falling gently.)_

* * *

She thinks it’s fitting. That Sherlock Holmes would follow her, even in death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was…incredibly difficult for me to write. I had originally made it much more angstier (is that even a word? If it is, I definitely misspelled it, lol) with a not-so-happy-but-vaguely-there ending and well…life kind of dealt me a shitty week, personally, and when I went to post this, I thought about you guys and your kind words and your incredibly amount of support and I knew I couldn’t do that to you guys. So, I re-wrote this because just because I had a shitty week, does not mean that you guys have to endure my angst and mood swings. 
> 
> I feel like I should explain why Sherlock wasn’t there. The truth is, as you can see from Janine’s reaction and Mary and John’s subtle not-reactions, he is there. Just not when she’s awake. Not when she can see him. But he is there. To me, he’s just wrought with guilt that Molly would die for him. John would and has killed for him but Molly, Molly not only harbored his secret but she also died for him. And his response when he sees the way she clutches her chest and the way he kisses her wounds and the way he can’t form more than words “I know” when she tells him that she died, was enough to make him stay away because he feels like he failed her. Where she helped him, where she saved him in his mind palace, he couldn’t for her. Or, you know, so he thought. But it turns out that he saved her just as much as she saved him. At least…this is my reasoning. Errmmm…don’t hate me too much? 
> 
> HUGE SHOUTOUT to everyone who has read/favored/kudos’d/followed/bookmarked this. THANK YOU ALL SO SO MUCH!

**Author's Note:**

> FEAR NOT! THERE IS PART TWO!  
> I hope everyone enjoys this! This will be a two-parter. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone and reviews are always appreciated. You guys are amazing and I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!


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